Page 9 of Unhitched

Chapter five

Kace

Reaching the door to my apartment, sweat trickles along my hairline.

After coming home from an on-site meeting to the state of both Mya and my apartment, I needed to work out the immediate anxiety that consumed me, so I went for a run.

I go to put the key in the lock, hoping the chaos behind the door has dissipated a bit but freeze when I notice a paper wedged beneath it.

I pull the folded triangle of notebook paper from its place, thinking it unintentionally landed there until I see my name written across the front.

Each letter has ten lines to it, like the letter was written repeatedly over top the previous time.

The “K” and the “C” are in green, the “A” and the “E” in orange.

It might say my name, but this literally has Mya written all over it.

Resuming entering my apartment, I unlock the door and push it open, sure to latch it behind me.

“Mya, I’m home,” I yell loudly to announce myself, feeling like Ricky Ricardo.

It came out like it was natural–the way my dad used to call my mom Lucy when he got home from work even though that’s not her name.

I can’t recall announcing myself that way with Ruby, but I sure as shit don’t need Mya peeping out from a corner in her tiny pajamas and sports bra.

She’s undeniably hot, and if I were in any sort of place to be looking for a woman, I wouldn’t be looking at anyone but her.

But I haven’t dated anyone besides Ruby in nearly a decade, and I had a bachelor phase that lasted long enough before that.

I have no desire to fuck around now that I’m in my thirties.

Even if I did, I wouldn’t fuck around with a roommate.

These are all obsolete thoughts anyway because I can’t imagine trusting a single person long enough to sleep with them.

Not to mention the chaos.

Mya is chaos in human form, and I have zero fucking clue what to do with that. She’s like the suicide soda you created as a kid, putting a splash of every single one from the machine into your cup, and somehow it tastes good.

Remembering the note, I set my gym and laptop bag on the kitchen counter and stare down at the table football in my hand. I haven’t seen paper folded like this since elementary school.

I pull the tab neatly tucked inside and unfold the note one triangle at a time. Running my hands over the creases to flatten it against my counter, I immediately confirm it’s from Mya.

Kace, Whoops! I locked myself out of the apartment.

Do you think I could get a key? If not, I totally understand!

We could just align our schedules better.

Is that weird? I don’t need to know where you are at all times.

That’s weird. Anyway, in case you need to know where I am, I’m killing time at the apartment up the hall.

The guy invited me to a party. 708. Here’s my number. Mya

There’s a string of hearts next to her name as well as her phone number inside a cloud.

I’m only distracted by the doodles for a second before panic sets in again.

Does she somehow know the neighbor? Sure as shit doesn’t sound like it considering she didn’t mention his name.

I fold the paper in fourths, running my thumb and forefinger over the creases repeatedly as my teeth grind together.

I’m not responsible for her.

I’m not responsible for her.

She’s a grown-ass adult who can make her own decisions.

As I step into the shower, I repeat the phrases, but as the hot water cascades down my back, they’re replaced with new ones.

What if something bad happens to her?

Or someone spikes her drink?

What if she leaves with a guy and can’t get home because I didn’t make her a key today?

No. I shampoo the sweat from my hair, tugging on the strands and demanding myself to let it go.

I’m not responsible for her.

I’m not responsible for her.

She’s a grown-ass adult who can make her own decisions.

Fuck.

I quickly finish my shower, toss on jeans and a gray T-shirt and grab my bomber jacket off the hook on my way out the door. Pocketing my keys, I veer toward the noise.

The door is open when I reach it, and I take it as an invitation to enter. I don’t know many of my neighbors. I haven’t had the need. I plan ahead so I don’t ever need an egg or a cup of sugar, and what other reason could I have for introducing myself?

I step inside the apartment, leaning against the front wall to take in the scene.

Not a single person notices my arrival, and that, in itself, is concerning from a safety standpoint.

I let it slide because Usher’s “Yeah” is blasting from an unseen speaker so loudly that I’m surprised anyone can hear the person next to them.

Scanning the room, I see the group of people sitting on the floor around the coffee table and playing Cards Against Humanity. There’s another group out on the balcony with Solo cups in their hands, taking turns with a life-size version of Jenga. And then my eyes find Mya.

Her smile is so bright that there’s hardly a need for the lights in the kitchen.

She’s leaning against the counter chatting to some woman mirroring her position on the kitchen island across from her, her new hair bouncing as she talks animatedly.

God, her hair is hot. Just long enough to grip from behind.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve had sex.

I can’t remember the last time Ruby and I slept together.

That’s how far gone our relationship was.

I know I need to take some responsibility for our demise.

She may have cut the rope, but I can recognize that it was likely easier because we’d both been fraying it, one twine at a time with each step we took away from each other.

I need to figure out how to let go of my hostility.

Confirming Mya is relatively safe, I move to leave.

I’ll text her so she can call when she’s ready to be let in tonight.

I freeze when she hands her phone over to the woman she’s talking to and swaps it for a shot of clear liquor.

Jesus fuck. I wonder how drunk she is, and the widening grin on her face tells me I’m about to find out.

The woman pulls her own phone out and taps a few times until the song changes.

Within the first few notes, I know what’s playing.

The woman holds Mya’s phone up and presses the record button as the intro lyrics to “Build Me Up Buttercup” start.

Mya reaches behind her for the Smirnoff bottle, holding it to her lips and singing the first verse into the cap like it’s a microphone.

At the end of the first verse, she sets the bottle on the kitchen island behind her friend and twirls in a circle, her arms up in the air like she doesn’t have a care in the damn world.

This woman got dumped a day before her birthday–which upon confirmation made me feel even more like shit than I already did–and became homeless.

Yet, she’s so damn happy you’d think she just got married and moved into a mansion. It’s not natural.

In the flash of a moment, she presses her palms onto the counter behind her and pushes herself up.

Her feet kick in front of her, and the woman recording zooms in on them before zooming back out and following Mya as she slides across the counter.

She hops off when she reaches the end. Is she making a music video?

I shake my head, chuckling to myself. This fucking girl. What is her deal?

Glancing next to me, I take a seat on the arm of the couch, set on watching the show.

I’m already here. I might as well. A man crosses in front of my path with a bottle of vodka and a stack of plastic shot glasses.

I think it’s the guy who lives here. When I nod, he says “hey” and to help myself to a drink, then follows the voice of a woman calling him from the other side of the room.

I shift my gaze back to Mya as she flings open the sliding door to the patio like there’s no resistance.

All the party goers outside give her their attention, lifting their Solo cups into the air under the glow of the patio light–one of them handing over their drink.

She takes a sip before handing it back, and my chest stutters.

I would feel that way if anyone did that though.

She squeezes her way back through the crack in the door, and someone else closes it behind her.

Glancing toward the ceiling as if the music is coming from there, it’s like she all of a sudden remembers the song.

She picks up singing at the chorus about needing someone more than anyone, and I can’t imagine Mya ever needing anybody.

She twirls around a few more times like she’s fucking Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music . After a few too many spins, she holds her hands out like they’ll steady her and grins at the phone her new friend has pointed at her face .

And then her eyes wander to the side, and they land on me.

For whatever fucking reason–recognition, I’m sure–her smile widens.

“Kace! You’re here!” she screams like she’s been waiting her whole damn life for me to show up. I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t palpitate at the way my name sounds coming out of her mouth, but it’s the shock of it. This girl is a stranger, and yet, she acts like we’re childhood friends.

The next thing I know, she’s hurtling toward me, and the moment after, she’s flung herself on me like we’re anything but strangers .

I guess I got my answer.

Really fucking drunk.

Her thighs slide against mine, hers bare with how short her romper outfit thing is.

I’m at too much of an angle for her to sit stable on my leg, so she immediately starts to slide off.

Her arms loop around my neck at the same moment one of my hands falls to the small of her back and the other grips her thigh.

Damn, her skin is soft, and her vanilla candy perfume is strong enough to barely overpower the vodka.